Biney
by AccountNoLongerActive1
Summary: Do I regret killing my Brother? I don't like to think about it too much.


**Dexter Morgan**

Do I regret killing my brother?

That is a question not many men or women have the chance to ask themselves. It isn't a question most people have to ask themselves. But I'm Dexter, the 'Dark Avenger'. I'm something new, and completely separate in it's own entity. There are two sides of me. Dexter Morgan—kind, caring, loving older brother and a damn good forensic analyst. Then, there's the Dark Passenger. A creature in the night, obeying no one but the moon, not even the body of its host. I'm not most people.

I go by many names, the most popular being the Bayharbor Butcher—but you can call me Dexter. Dexter. Dexter Morgan. My adopted last name being one of the most generic imaginable. But Dexter... Not many men get a name so weird... I guess it's because I'm a freak.

I didn't ask for this—I didn't to watch my mother get hacked into little pieces, or wait in blood three inches thick with my equally fucked up, equally dead brother, Brian. Biney.

We were equals. One in the same. We were both commanded by our own darkness, our own creature lurking within the depths of our so-called souls. Except, Brian doesn't have a soul anymore… only a decaying body lying in the Miami cemetery. Perhaps he never had a soul, perhaps I don't have one. Could a creature like me who doesn't feel any emotion possibly have something considered a soul?

I don't like to think about it too much.

It brings me back to the question I've been asking myself since the night a committed the act—do I regret killing my brother?

Maybe I'm looking at this the wrong way.

Do I regret killing a murderer of innocent prostitutes? As innocent as prostitutes can get. No. He was a bit too Jack the fucking Ripper for my tastes. Why my brother chose prostitutes, I'd never understand. Perhaps he had a traumatic experience with a newbie. Perhaps it was the event that made me a cold blooded sociopath I am today. Prostitutes. I would never go after one—unless they were guilty, of course.

My brother didn't seem to grasp the Code of Harry. Though he hadn't been brought up to respect the innocent, and hack up only those who wronged society. He was deprived of someone to help him, he wasn't taught the right and wrong in the act of killing. Not many people are. Not many people need to be taught—those who do, don't ever listen.

Jeremy Downs. A boy, just like me, just like Brian. He killed people—he was guilty, he was only guilty because he wasn't taught right and wrong, he was only guilty because he had made himself just that. If I had helped him, if I had taught him… he wouldn't be dead. I only had enough time with him to simply say "Only kill those who deserve to die."

He committed suicide the next day.

He killed someone who had deserved to die.

Himself. He saw himself as someone who was just as bad as other murderers. I didn't really know how to take his suicide—it definitely saved me of killing him, yet deprived me of a companion.

Do I deserve to die? I'm a killer, yes—but I only kill the bad people. The people that put others in harms way. Paul Bennett—Rita's ex-husband—was such a man. Oh how I wished I could have killed him myself. He came close to revealing me, I never would have gotten to him in time. That prison inmate who murdered him did me a favor. A favor I may just have to repay.

Now I'm just avoiding the question all together.

Do I regret killing my brother?

In a way, yes. I regret killing a man whose blood runs through my veins, who shared the same mother, who shared the same demon. I had killed off my own kin, all for a foster sister I didn't have any feelings for.

Deb had always been good to me. Her foul mouth and pissed-off-with-everything-and-everyone attitude always seemed to be protective of me—even if I was older.

I don't think she'd ever get over the fact that I was a foster child. She didn't mind that I was, and she treated me as if it was _her _blood that I held. But I knew the thought was always in her mind. Edging in on her thoughts every now and then.

'_Don't get mad at Dex—he's a fucking foster kid.'_ I'm not sure how Deb's mind works, but I know that her thoughts would have a lot more expletives than that. But that's just Deb, and that's why everyone seems to love her. Well, everyone but LaGuerta. I've never truly understood what her problem is with my sister. I only know that she wants to fuck me. Deb's a damn good cop, and Detective LaGuerta is too busy eye-fucking me to see that.

I seem to have a knack for avoiding the unavoidable questions these days.

Do I regret killing my brother?

Yes. I regret killing Brian Moser—otherwise known as Rudy Cooper, the Ice Truck Killer.

Do I regret killing the Ice Truck Killer?

No.

The Ice truck killer was a savage with no morals—a savage that nearly made me murder my own foster sister. An innocent.

It was daunting for me to kill him—the mere thought of me slicing his throat sent shivers up my spine. But they weren't shivers of anticipation—not this time.

It was a shiver of fear. Never in my life had I met another tortured soul—if I even have a soul. The only person to ever truly understand me, my own kin. But I knew I had to do it. He didn't follow the code. He was guilty.

The Code of Harry has molded my life. It's my commandments, the only rules I have ever and will ever abide by. Was killing my brother breaking the code? Yes. Was killing the Ice Truck killer? No.

The code was protected, as was my record. No innocents killed to date.

Go me.

Do I regret killing my brother?

Yes.

I regret killing my older brother, the one I didn't remember. I regret not remembering what had happened to me at three years of age, not being there for my brother who remembered everything of our re-birth in such vivid detail. He didn't deserve to be left in the dark. He deserved to come home with me and Harry. He deserved the Code.

And it was with great pain that I suddenly realized that I wasn't just _thinking _in regret—but feeling it too. The first time I had ever felt alive—and it was regret over murdering my own brother.

Brother to brother, all the blood runs red.


End file.
